


as a shrike to your sharp and glorious thorn

by aibohphobic



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Art History?, F/M, Friends to Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Italy?, Pining, and Bellamy doesn't really hate Clarke, except Clarke doesn't really hate bellamy, fun stuff. fun times, just. a lot of angst, professor!bellamy, professor!clarke, they're just both. angsty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 13:42:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16041626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aibohphobic/pseuds/aibohphobic
Summary: “I’m sorry, what?”Bellamy snorts at her expression and leans back in his chair. “It’s -- nothing. Clarke’s been recruited to help track down the piece before a supposed art thief who resurfaced can get her hands on it. She was just looking for a partner.”“Oh, who was it who recruited her? Was it the Italian mob? Oh, my god. Is Clarke joining the Italian mob to try and discover a long-lost piece of art? Oh, my god -- are you joining the Italian mob? Is your life going to turn into some weird 21st century version of The Godfather, but, like, art-related? Are you going to be the new Al Pacino?”“I’ve never seen The Godfather,” he says.Or, Clarke needs a partner as she attempts to track down an art thief and a missing painting in Italy. Bellamy goes with her.





	as a shrike to your sharp and glorious thorn

**Author's Note:**

> a few things: i've started and never finished like, five different bellarke fics in the past two years, and this is the first one that's mostly finished. it's 1000% self indulgent and i got the idea from watching the da vinci code like, a year ago. so it's essentially the davinci code + stolen art + bellarke + a kind of adventure chase thing, and then lots of angst because i live for that shit.
> 
> also, i did the absolute bare minimum in terms of research for this fic. please do not read this fic for historical/geographical accuracy.
> 
> also also, this fic is un-beta'd. please be aware there might be typos. in fact, there probably will be. i'll fix it at some point, probably.
> 
> this is the first part of three chapters, so the rating and tags might/will change as we progress.
> 
> please enjoy friends! 
> 
> title is from Hozier's new song 'shrike'.

Before she knocks on the door, Clarke takes a breath and tries to still her shaking hands. There’s no good reason for her to be this nervous -- professionalism is her strong suit; she’s faced more daunting tasks than this.

 

Still, the plaque next to the door with his name written in large, black letters makes her lick her lips, and tuck a piece of hair behind her ear.

 

As her hand raises to knock on the door, she glances at her wrist. The charms on her bracelet dangle daintily, and the boot-shaped one he had given her when she took the job -- “I couldn’t find one shaped like Italy, so this was the closest I could get,” he had said -- rests neatly below her palm. It feels like the charm is staring at her, judging her for the hypocrisy in what she’s about to do.

 

She clenches a fist, and knocks sharply. When his gruff voice that she knows only shows itself after hours of misuse lets out a _come in_ that barely filters through the door, she pushes on the handle and lets herself in.

 

Clarke sees his desk first, cluttered with papers and pens and books and two mugs, at least one of which she knows is empty -- though he was relentless when it came to her messiness, he was never one to be tidy in the midst of a project. There’s a photo of Octavia and Lincoln on the edge next to his computer, and a paperweight next to that.

 

Her eyes sweep around the room and land on him, standing casually next to a bookcase with his back to her, one hand running along the spines while his other holds several volumes already.

 

She blinks, falls against the door slightly; the familiar slope of his shoulder and the tilt of his head makes her want to gasp. Her lips part inadvertently.

 

He turns at the sound, not fulling registering her for a few seconds. When he does, he stands up straighter, and she can see the clench of his jaw.

 

The moment stretches, bending between them as they stand and take each other in.

 

Clarke clears her throat, abrupt. “Bellamy.”

 

“Clarke,” he says. “Nice to see you.”

 

She can hear the tightness in his voice; she misses the warmth she used to know. “How -- how are things, with you? How’s --” She pauses, licks her lips again. “How are you?”

 

He stares, then moves towards his desk, planting the books on the corner. “I’m fine. Are you here for a reason, or are you going to make me guess?”

 

Clarke bites her lip, and closes the door behind her. “Can we not do this, right now?”

 

“I don’t know, Clarke. Why don’t you tell me why you’ve decided to grace the halls of ArkU after -- what? Has it really been _four years_?”

 

She stands, gripping the folder in her hands. “Bellamy, I know how you felt about my leaving --”

 

He scoffs, leans back in his chair.

 

“--but I am here for a reason.” She opens the folder and pulls out a piece of paper, sliding it in front of him onto his desk. “Dante sent me to ask for your help.”

 

“You need me.” It’s a question. He fingers the edge of the form.

 

“I --” She starts, then stops, swallowing. “Yes. We need you.”

 

“You need me after you  _left_ me? With nothing?" He shakes his head. "It doesn't work like that, Clarke. This isn't how I get to hear from you after four years of radio silence."

 

“Jesus, Bellamy --” She presses her hand to her temple, sighing. “I know that we’re not -- I know that how I left wasn’t right, and that I hurt you.” She looks up at him, composing herself. “But this isn’t about me. I’m here as a representative for Dante, and for the art department, and. We need you.”

 

He clenches his jaw again, then looks at the paper before him.

 

“Seven months ago, Luna Meri resurfaced after several years of hiding. She’s been wanted for nearly a million dollars worth of stolen artifacts, but has never been caught by the Italian police or the FBI, when they became involved. Both forces have significant evidence that she’s going after a famous Caravaggio work believed to be --”

 

“-- destroyed, I know.” He looks up at her. “Art History 203, princess. I remember.”

 

Her lips part, and she curls her hand behind her ear even though there’s no untucked hair to brush away. “Anyways, this wasn’t a high priority for a decent amount of time because the Caravaggio piece was allegedly non-existent, but the FBI contacted the Wallaces a few weeks ago with information provided by a former mafia figure. He claimed that the piece was still intact, and in the hands of a descendant of the Sicilian mafia. Now, they need two historians on the team being sent to Sicily to aid in the discovery of it.” She closes her folder. “Dante asked me to be one of them, given that I’ve lived in Naples working for the department for a number of years, and am familiar with the case and with the community.”

 

“But why does he want me? I mean, why not select another art history prof to go with you?”

 

Clarke glances at her feet, then back up at him. “Dante didn’t name you specifically. I was the one who requested to choose a partner to come with me.”

 

“Clarke,” he starts, but she steels herself and places a hand on his desk, leaning forward.

 

“I know it’s -- it’s sudden, and it’s a lot to ask, and I know there are more qualified people to go to, but, Bellamy.” She softens, a little. “We were the best team, together. There was never anyone else who worked as well as we did. It’s -- I need you.”

 

She thinks she sees something, in his eyes -- something like what he was four years ago, barely twenty four and young and passionate, armed and at the ready for anything. She thinks there’s a remnant of the man she would follow anywhere, folded underneath the harshness built after years of distance. She knows him.

 

Or, who he was, anyways.

 

He looks away, picking up the paper and handing it back to her. “I think you’re looking for someone else.” His gaze flicks back at her, and there’s what looks like a trace of guilt in his expression, but it vanishes as quick as it came. “I’m sorry.”

 

Her fingers hesitate, brushing the sheet of paper before taking it and slipping it back in the folder.

 

“Look, I know what we -- what happened between us wasn’t fair,” she says. “I know that it was shitty, and my leaving wasn’t maybe the best move, but you can’t just -- this is something incredible, Bellamy. The Bellamy Blake I knew four years ago would never run away from an opportunity like this.”

 

“Yeah, well, I think we both know who of us is better at running.” He says, cold.

 

She bites on her cheek and glances up, taking a breath. He folds his arms.

 

“I’m sorry, for what I did. I won’t push you to take this, so,” she says. She tucks the folder under her arm, composes herself, gives a weak look at him. “I’m sorry for asking. I guess it was dumb to think you’d say yes.”

 

He’s silent.

 

When she leaves, she closes the door with a soft _click_ and steadies herself against the frame for a moment.

 

She thought it would be different, seeing him again. That he would smile at her the way he used to, a soft grin that always looked like it took him by surprise, jolting his features a little. That he would allow her to burrow into him the way she used to, tucking her face against his shoulder, feeling the slow moving of his arms around her. That her name would fall out of his mouth the way it used to, curling around his tongue affectionately -- not in the unfamiliar, sharp syllable that felt as cold as it sounded.

 

She wonders, for a moment, if she was as unrecognizable to him.

 

She doesn’t allow herself to linger on that particular train of thought.

 

\--

 

Bellamy rolls his shoulders back and rubs at the crick in his neck, glancing at the clock. After Clarke left, he had allowed himself to spiral into a deep web hole of clicking through her profile on the official ArkU website, and three of her publications after that, and then her Facebook, until his chest became so tight he had to stand and pace around his office for a few minutes.

 

Here’s the thing: Clarke Griffin was a complicated and blazing force of nature he became consumed by, and when she left without saying goodbye, he was lost, without her.

 

Here’s the thing: he’s picked himself back up, moved on from whatever he thought he might have felt for her, and made something for himself.

 

Here’s the thing: the exact minute he locked eyes with her in his tiny little square of an office, it was like a chemical reaction exploded in his chest, burning and licking at his insides, crawling up towards his throat, a pulsing river of everything he had ever locked away threatening to spill from his lips.

 

And now he’s hunched over in this fucking uncomfortable chair, a headache pounding behind his eyes, and he can’t think about anything other than the shape of her walking out and closing the door behind her.

 

So this isn’t the most ideal way for his Tuesday to come to a close.

 

A knock at his door startles him, and his heart begins to pound wildly before the door opens and he realizes it isn’t Clarke.

 

“Hey, Blake.” Gaia, one of the linguistics profs, leans against the doorframe.

 

He smiles weakly. “Hey, Gaia.”

 

“Long day?”

 

“Longer than I’d like.”

 

“Hey, I got a question for you.” She steps into the room and taps her fingernails on his desk. “Diyoza said she saw one _Clarke_ _Griffin_ strolling around the halls a few hours ago.”

 

“That’s not a question.”

 

Gaia rolls her eyes. “Did she pop in to say hi?”

 

“Yeah, she did.” He rubs a hand over his face.

 

She looks at him, unimpressed. “ _Just_ to say hi?”

 

“She had some -- I don’t know, some lost-artwork-Indiana-Jones thing she wanted my help with. It had something to do with the Caravaggio piece that went missing in the 1960s.”

 

“I’m sorry, what?”

 

Bellamy snorts at her expression and leans back in his chair. “It’s -- nothing. Clarke’s been recruited to help track down the piece before a supposed art thief who resurfaced can get her hands on it. She was just looking for a partner.”

 

“Oh, who was it who recruited her? Was it the Italian mob? Oh my god. Is Clarke joining the Italian mob to try and discover a long-lost piece of art? Oh my god -- are you joining the Italian mob? Is your life going to turn into some weird 21st century version of The Godfather, but, like, art-related? Are you going to be the new Al Pacino?”

 

“I’ve never seen The Godfather,” he says. “And I said no, so unfortunately, you won’t get to watch one of your co-workers become a crime boss.”

 

She grins. “Seriously, what did she want?”

 

“I’m not lying -- she really did want someone to travel to Italy with her and try and track down this painting.”

 

“Yeah, and I’m Robert Langdon.”

 

“If you keep it up with these pop-culture references, I’m going to ask you to leave.”

 

“You’re serious? She offered you a job travelling around Italy to find a _stolen painting_ and you’re still sitting here?”

 

“It’s not -- it’s more complicated than that. I can’t just -- and she’s -- Clarke,” he finishes lamely. “I don’t even know why she thought I’d agree.”

 

“It’s obviously not because you guys were attached at the hip before she moved,” Gaia says, wry, “and not because you’re Bellamy Blake, who leaps at any singular opportunity with anything remotely involving history. And,” she adds as an afterthought, “you probably can’t say no to her.”

 

“I don’t have time for whatever bullshit Clarke thinks --”

 

“Bullshit? Bellamy Blake is calling an incredibly valuable, thought-to-be-lost piece of artwork that has defined Italian history bullshit? You spent an entire week two months ago raving about the art theft that occurred during World War II and you have absolutely nothing to say about this.”

 

“You were joking about the Italian mob a minute ago -- let’s go back to that,” he says, but it’s weak.

 

When she speaks again, her voice is gentler. “I’m serious, Bellamy. This isn’t about Clarke and -- whatever she was or wasn’t to you. You’re a _historian_ , Bellamy. You are literally paid to develop the minds of intrigued students with stories about Renaissance Europe and all you’ve done in your four years holding that title is write one incredibly long and convoluted book about the Crusades that maybe forty people read.” She smiles.

 

“To be fair, that’s pretty much what academia is.”

 

Gaia taps his desk once, and walks towards the door. “I’m just saying, if it were me, I’d have bought a plane ticket already.”

 

Bellamy lets out a breath as she leaves.

 

He glances at his laptop in front of him, leaning his elbows on his desktop. The tab with Clarke’s profile is still open on his screen. He stares at the photo of her next to her bio, one that was taken before she left -- her hair is done up, with a few strands brushing her shoulders. She stares intensely at the camera, the corner of her mouth tilted up slightly. There’s red nail polish on her hands that are folded across her chest, and she’s wearing a blouse she bought when they went to Spain together, after they had both finished their undergrad. The slope of her neck peeks through the collar, and his eyes trace the pale skin up to her jaw --

 

He closes the tab, and shuts his computer off.

 

\--

 

Pike sends Bellamy an email the week after, a short, quick blip about meeting in his office to discuss “his potential as a contemporary enlightener of minds, both young and old.”

 

He’s got a headache before he even walks into the office.

 

“Welcome, Bellamy.” Pike sits back in his chair and gestures. “Take a seat, please.”

 

For some reason, he feels like he’s been called into the principal’s office. Which, as Dean, Pike technically is a type of principal, if the principal had a weird obsession with survival skills and hung decorative daggers and those fake fish plaques in his office.

 

“What can I do for you, Charles?” He asks.

 

“I’d like to speak with you about your research as a professor at Arkadia University.” Pike folds his hands in front of him. “I feel as though you have been... _lacking_ , in your department.”

 

“Uh --” Bellamy swipes his hand on his pant leg. “Well, it’s been a slow few months -- I’ve been working on a new project about the correlation and presence of Greco-Roman influences during the Spanish Renaissance, but that’s been --”

 

“I just feel like there’s a lot of --” Pike makes a fist -- “locked potential, here. You could be doing something life-changing, Bellamy! How are you going to _inspire_ the minds of those you teach if you cannot, in fact, _inspire_ yourself?”

 

Bellamy laughs awkwardly, and makes a mental note to never use the word inspire in one of his future lectures.

 

“I’d like to see more from you,” he admits. “I know you’re relatively young, so to speak, but you should be held to the same standard as professors who have been teaching for much longer than you.”

 

“I actually do have something,” he blurts out. “Something new. I wasn’t --” He swallows, and pushes on. “I originally wasn’t sure if I should follow through with it, but it might prove to be, um. _Inspiring_.”

 

Pike waits, expectantly.

 

“I’m sure you’re familiar with Clarke Griffin -- she’s part of the art history department, working abroad in Naples. She needs someone to work with her in the search for a long-lost Caravaggio piece, but I wasn’t sure I’d be able to take the time off, and --”

 

“No, but this is perfect! Imagine what _stories_ you’ll be able to write about this experience! Imagine what _tales_ you’ll use to shape the minds of your students!”

 

“I’m sure Greco-Roman influences would be just as intriguing, and I’d be more than happy to continue with that --”

 

“I think you should accompany Ms. Griffin. I’m sure you’ll find it to be more than satisfying.” Pike takes his hands off his desk, a sign this conversation is coming to a close. Bellamy wonders briefly if his and Pike’s definitions of satisfying are anything remotely similar.

 

He swallows again, and stands up. “I’m sure I will, sir.”

 

 _Why does my mouth always function separately from my brain_ , he texts Miller on his way out.

 

 _I ask myself that question every day_ , he responds unhelpfully.

 

\--

 

When Clarke was offered the job in Naples, as researcher for ArkU’s art department abroad, it was easy to consider saying yes. It had good pay -- as good as working in academia could pay, anyways -- and it meant she could work for several months at a time in Italy -- _Italy!_ \-- and return to the States to work with other art history departments at other colleges across the country.

 

It was Bellamy who kept her from accepting it, at first. He, obviously, was nothing short of enthusiastic for her. When she told him, he spent days on the couch next to her researching what living in Italy would be like, and put a jar on his desk that he’d toss spare change into, with a sticky note on it that read _Bellamy’s Italy ticket fund_ for when he’d inevitably come and visit her.

 

But the best part of her job was Bellamy -- everything was better with Bellamy. She didn’t know what she’d do without him. And she was happy, in Arkadia. She liked her job, and her friends. She liked that shitty bar down the street from the university, that she and Bellamy and a few of the other profs would go to on Fridays, and how during exam week it was ritual for her and Bellamy to coop up in her apartment stressed for themselves as well as their students.

 

She probably wouldn’t have taken the job at all, if it wasn’t for Lexa.

 

Clarke met Lexa a few months before she got the job offer, at a lecture by a prof from UCLA. She had a Master’s in anthropology, and was working on her PhD, and drank red wine, and wore dark eyeliner that threw Clarke off her balance the first time she met her.

 

There wasn’t anything she didn’t like about Lexa -- she was beautiful, and intelligent, and could spend hours talking about humanism, and her gigantic thesis, which was about ancient anthropological societies and something Clarke could never fully understand when Lexa tried to explain it to her, but -- she liked her.

 

Bellamy didn’t.

 

They started to fight, a lot, about _stupid_ things. They’d get into a petty argument about the significance of an artifact, or what a student was _really_ trying to say in their paper. Most of the time the fights would end with one of them backing down, sometimes bitterly, but things would go back to normal. They’d move on, and still have dinner together once or twice a week, and then something would tick one of them off and they’d go back to arguing.

 

One night, after she and Bellamy had a particularly strained conversation, she had complained to Lexa about it. “It just feels like everything I do sets him off -- it’s like there’s an underlying mood he’s always on the brink of, and as soon as I start talking, he becomes this other person.”

 

Lexa hummed noncommittally, stirring dinner on the stovetop.

 

Clarke got up from her spot on the couch. “I just --” She bit her lip. “I miss him.”

 

“Maybe he just needs some space from you.”

 

“That’s the thing,” she exclaimed. “If he needed space, I could understand that! But he doesn’t distance himself -- I see him just as often as I used to. The only difference is there’s nothing friendly about our relationship anymore -- it’s just fighting, _all the time_. It’s exhausting.”

 

Lexa was silent.

 

“And I don’t even know what I did to make him like this! Nothing happened!” Clarke folded her arms over her chest.

 

“ _I_ happened,” Lexa said.

 

Clarke frowned.

 

“Seriously, Clarke, you can’t be this oblivious.”

 

“I’m -- what?”

 

“It’s me. The two of you were incredibly close, but that was when you were both single. Now that I’ve become a part of the picture, you’ve spent less time with him and more with me, and I know you’ve noticed he wasn’t particularly fond of me to begin with.”

 

“Do you --” She paused. “Do you really think that’s why? Because he’s jealous of you? He’s been on dates, and --”

 

“It’s not about whether he has romantic or platonic feelings for you, Clarke. I’m not sure your relationship with him is definable within those confines anyways, but. I’ve replaced him in your life, in a way.”

 

Lexa did have a point -- she used to spend her days at Bellamy’s, or he’d come to her place, and she’d make fun of his shitty taste in beer, and complain about an incredibly obtuse student she had, or they’d make dinner together, and watch the Discovery channel. Now, Clarke’s routine involved trying to navigate her relationship with Bellamy, and then coming home to Lexa at the end of the day.

 

She texted Bellamy after dinner, and asked if he wanted to meet for drinks.

 

He met her at Drew’s the night after, and she studied him as he took a seat at the bar next to her.

 

His mouth opened as though he was about to say something, but she got there first.

 

“I’m sorry,” she started. “I’ve been a dick, and I’m sorry.”

 

He sighed, and ordered a beer before he turned back to her. “It’s -- I’ve been a dick too.” He smiled, gentle. “We’ve both been dicks.”

 

“Lexa is important to me. I think you know that. And I know I’ve been a shitty friend since we started dating, but lots of new relationships are like that, and I’ll try harder to be more attentive about that, and --”

 

He stopped her, holding a hand up. “It’s not your fault, Clarke. Things just got -- messy. And I was unfair about it. I’m sorry too.”

 

She smiled, relieved. “I had a whole speech planned out about why we should be friends again.”

 

He tapped his beer against hers. “We never weren’t, Clarke.”

 

“Wow, did that make sense in your head before you said it? ‘Cause --”

 

“I take it back,” he said over her giggles, jostling her shoulder. “I’m leaving, I can’t be subjected to this abuse --”

 

She smacked a kiss on his cheek, and beamed when he flushed.

 

“Now, I want to hear about this idiot student I’ve been missing out on,” she declared. “How bad has it gotten?”

 

“Well, last week he turned in what was supposed to be an analytical ten-page paper about medieval ideologies that was entirely a first-person narration about the discovery of _the wheel_ , so you can imagine how much fun I’m having with that.”

 

\--

 

She isn’t totally sure he’s going to show up until she turns and spots him, in a tight blue henley and wearing the same glasses he had four years ago, cheap green plastic ones with scratches on them. He had sent her an email that was short and choppy, but had gotten the idea across --  someone, _something_ , had changed his mind, and he’d be accompanying her on the trip. Her heart had started to pound erratically, and she had to rapidly swallow the rest of her tea before she plucked up enough courage to write a reply. She had thought about what she would say to him, what it would be like to spend the next three weeks with him, probably staying in the same hotel room together, eating together, working together, the way it had been before she had left. It won’t be the _same_ , she knows, but there’s a chance it could be good. That they can be _good_ , together, like how it was. It won’t be simple, but. When she sees him walk towards her, with that slow, lazy gait of his, his hands tucked in his pockets, something feels familiar, comforting, about his figure -- warmth seeps through her toes.

 

Her heart’s still pounding.

 

“Bellamy,” she greets him. There’s a strand of hair sticking up at the top of his head, and her hand itches to smooth it down. She bites the inside of her cheek instead.

 

“I know a red-eye made the most sense, like, financially, but I’m not entirely sure I’m going to make it onto the plane,” he replies.

 

She hands him one of the coffee cups in her grasp. “One step ahead of you.”

 

“Always were,” he says, but it falls short, a little.

 

It’s silent for a moment, and tension crawls in the way Clarke had expected it would.

 

“Can I ask -- why’d you decide to come?” she asks, plainly. “I thought a twenty million dollar piece of art wasn’t worth your time.”

 

He hesitates before answering. “Academic stuff. I’m working on a new publication, and needed a fresh perspective.” His voice is still like it was the day in his office, emotionless and clipped. “It just made sense, after a while.”

 

Clarke doesn’t know how to be nervous around Bellamy, not really. It was always so effortless, before. Now it’s all uncharted territory that she can’t figure out how to navigate -- she doesn’t know what to say, or what to do with her hands, or how to pretend that she’s going to be remotely fine spending most of her time with him trying to be formal and professional when she knows what his laugh sounds like, and how he used to look when he woke up in the morning, stumbling into the kitchen with his shirt on backwards and voice pitched low and scratchy.

 

“Well, I’m glad you changed your mind,” she says, finally. She doesn’t know if it’s a lie or not.

 

\--

 

It really was mostly Lexa who convinced Clarke to take the job -- she was never the type of person to leave at the drop of a hat; planning was always a priority for her, and _comfort_. She was comfortable, at ArkU.

 

She and Lexa spent _hours_ discussing the pros and cons of moving to Italy; what it would mean financially, and for her social life, and for their relationship.

 

The latter was solved when Lexa came home one day, two weeks after the offer, and told Clarke she had accepted a job in Rome.

 

“I’ll be working for a magazine, writing articles for their anthropology section,” she explained. “It was a no-brainer, really -- there’s nothing for me here. At least, in Rome, I’ll be doing something _meaningful_ . And,” she looked at Clarke, “now there’s nothing, really, stopping you from taking the job in Naples. We’ll be together in _Italy_ , Clarke. Think about how amazing it’ll be.”

 

She did have a point -- there was so much more she could accomplish in Italy, working directly with art hundreds of thousands of years old. And with Lexa there, they wouldn’t have to work around a difficult long-distance thing.

 

But. _Bellamy_.

 

Clarke knew there was no way Bellamy would let her pass on an opportunity as incredible as this just to maintain a healthy friendship with him, and she also knew it would be a stupid move to stay just because of him. But she didn’t know her life without him, and she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to find out what that looked like.

 

She knew there were things like Skype, and other ways to stay in touch, but being in separate countries, thousands of miles away, was something of a different calibre.

 

For now, at least, she savoured the moments she did have with him -- he came over several times to try and help organize her belongings into ‘keep’ and ‘toss’ piles, persisting as she’d whine about parting with the most insignificant of things. They got dinner together, and he popped into her office a few times a week to help her with an article she was aiming to finish before she left.

 

It didn’t help that the more time Clarke spent with him, the less enthused she became about Italy. She loved Lexa -- she did, but she could love Lexa while they were together in Arkadia, too.

 

It also didn’t help that Lexa was beginning to notice her change in mood.

 

“I just don’t know why you’re acting like this,” she told Clarke. “I don’t know what else you want -- you’re going to live in Italy, working your dream job, with _me_. You’ll be coming back to the States intermittently for work anyways, so you’ll see your friends a few times a year.”

 

“That’s just it,” Clarke sighed. “A few times a _year_ is a drastic change from once a day, Lexa. These people are just as important to me as you are.”

 

Lexa paused, and then, “If it was Bellamy, you’d be in Italy already.”

 

Clarke gaped at her. “Excuse me?”

 

“We both know I’m right, Clarke. You may not feel anything romantic towards him, but what you have with him is something different than you’ll ever have with me.”

 

“That’s the point, Lexa -- what I have with him is different than what I have with you because I’m not dating him!” Clarke was incredulous. “I’m -- I want to move to Italy with _you_ . This isn’t about who Bellamy is to me or -- isn’t. It’s not that -- it’s just _hard_ , facing the reality that I’m not going to be as close with these people who are some of my best friends. Why is that so hard for you to understand?”

 

Lexa clenched her jaw, and looked away. “I think I’ll just go to bed.”

 

“We need to finish this --” Clarke started, and stopped, folding her arms and leaning against the fridge. “Fine. I’ll be there in a bit.”

 

She sat down on the couch, and grabbed her phone, texting Bellamy. _Who would have thought moving countries would be so aggravating?_

 

 _Literally everyone_ , he responded a minute later. _I don’t know why you didn’t prepare yourself more for this_.

 

She smiled. _I should have picked up some pamphlets. Maybe done some wikiHow research_.

 

Clarke spent the rest of her night in that position on the couch, grinning at her phone. She eventually fell asleep like that, her head tilted onto a ratty pillow, knees tucked in close, her phone buzzing with Bellamy’s _good night_ text.

 

\--

 

They don’t speak for most of the flight, other than the few times Clarke needs to get up to pee, and when she asks him to turn the light above his seat off when she wants to sleep.

 

Still, she’s acutely aware of every movement he makes, next to her, alert in a way that doesn’t help her nerves.

 

For one thing, he has a _beard_ , now.

 

It shocked her when she first stepped into his office, and she seems to focus on in whenever she’s looking directly at him. Since freshman year, she had never known him to be one to actively try and grow one, familiar with the sharp definition of his clean-shaven jaw. He looks older, with the scruff, and she wishes for a moment she could see what he looked like while it grew in; if it was patchy, or a gradual shadow that darkened over several weeks.

 

He’s reading something -- a thick book she can’t see the title of -- but every now and then, he’ll reach up and scratch at his cheek, and lick his thumb, and turn the page. He has this incredibly focused expression when he’s reading, where his brows pinch a little and his mouth will twitch, sometimes mouthing words out entirely if he’s particularly fixed on a passage.

 

He catches her staring, once, and when he looks up at her, he’s still wearing that expression, and the intensity shakes her, a little.

 

She looks away immediately, goes back to the article she’s trying to finish, and hates how awkward this is, how Bellamy Blake has turned into a puzzle whose pieces she doesn’t know how to fit together anymore.

 

A driver meets them at the airport when they land, and brings them to their hotel, and she heads up to her room immediately, not looking to see if Bellamy is following suit.

 

They have different rooms, two floors apart, which Clarke’s immensely grateful for, because sleepy, gruffy, morning Bellamy is not something she can deal with at this point in time.

 

She passes out as soon as her head hits the pillow, and sleeps soundly for the rest of the day.

 

When she wakes up, the sun is setting outside her window.

 

She puts on a jacket and heads to the lobby of the hotel, asks where the nearest cafe is. She needs a glass of wine, and some food, and some fresh air.

 

Of course it’s just her luck that as soon as she turns the corner, Bellamy’s sitting outside the cafe, leaning on his elbows, hunched over the table. There’s a glass of red wine next to him, and a plate of pasta, and he has a newspaper he seems to be struggling with. She can hear him sounding out the Italian words, clumsily working his way through an article.

 

She’s about to turn away and head somewhere else when he glances up, and meets her eyes.

 

“I was going to find a place to eat,” she says. “I can go back to the hotel, or --” she stops, bites her lip.

 

He slides the newspaper over, making room at his table. “Just sit down, Clarke.”

 

She hesitates for a moment, watching him. He’s not waiting for her to do anything, has already gone back to his plate and newspaper, but the chair next to him is pulled out, and.

 

She sits down, trying to curl up into herself, to take up as little space as possible.

 

A waiter comes boy, with a little bowl of olives, and she orders a plate of pasta for herself. There’s not many patrons in the cafe, and they’re next to a waterfront, where sailboats are bobbing up and down. It’s nice; it feels like she could be here, with Bellamy, away from everything. Like it’s something they do _together_ , and that they’re not just here to work and then head home, going their separate ways. She aches a little at the thought.

 

It’s quiet for a long time, while she eats, and Bellamy reads.

 

He glances up, and clears his throat, and slides the newspaper towards her. “I, uh, guess I thought Italian would be pretty similar to French -- romantic languages, and all that, but I think I’m starting to get a headache from trying to figure out this damn translation.”

 

She smiles, swallows her mouthful of pasta, and picks up the paper. “It’s an article about the Italian mafia,” she says, slowly. “There’s a warrant for the arrest of one of the bosses, and several unnamed members who the government believes are active again.”

 

He twirls a spiral of pasta around his fork. “You know, I wasn’t totally convinced that I’d be entering an alternate reality where the Godfather is actually real the moment I stepped off the plane, but I’m starting to think that’s a real possibility.”

 

She snorts, and he grins, and for a second it’s nice, and the sun is setting, giving his face a bright orange glow, and he’s beautiful, and she can feel familiarity spreading through her chest.

 

And then it’s gone, and it’s like they both remember where they are, and he clears his throat loudly, clattering his fork on the table.

 

“So, what’s the plan?” He transitions smoothly into business mode. “Are we meeting with Wallace tomorrow?”

 

“Um,” she stares for a minute. “Uh, yeah. We’re going to visit the Oratorio di San Lorenzo, where we’ll meet Dante and he can take us through what they have so far. Diyoza, captain of the Italian police, will be there too.”

 

“The -- what? Oratorio?”

 

“The Oratory of Saint Lawrence. It’s where the painting was originally stolen, and Dante knows one of the workers who was around back in the 1960s. He thinks there might be something of use the worker can tell us, at least about the painting itself if not the robbery.”

 

“Huh,” Bellamy says. “So he really thinks we’re going to track this piece down.”

 

“Well, it’s what we came here to do, right? It’s not like we’re going to find a pair of muddy footprints leading to a completely untouched piece. It’s going to take a lot of work, but I think both Dante and I are hopeful that the reappearance of Luna will help, especially if she really is going after this painting.”

 

“Yeah, but.” He shrugs. “I don’t know -- it’s has been missing for sixty years, Clarke. You really think that in the three weeks we’re here, something miraculous will spring up?”

 

“It’s better than being a pessimistic _dick_ the entire time,” she snaps. “I came here to be helpful, Bellamy. That’s what I was asked to do.”

 

“Yeah, and you _wanted me_ to come with you. Believe me, I’m not here of my own volition, princess,” he retorts.

 

“And you didn’t have to come!” she exclaims. “Jesus, Bellamy, don’t blame me. You said no when I asked, and that would have been that, if you hadn’t emailed a week later changing your mind, with little to _no_ explanation as to _why_!”

 

He’s silent, staring at the newspaper. His jaw ticks.

 

“I think I’m going to _run_ back to my hotel room,” she says flatly, pushing back her chair, standing up. “Since that’s clearly what I’m best at.”

 

“Clarke --” he starts, and then stops, not looking at her.

 

She sighs. “I’ll see you in the morning, Bellamy.”

 

Her room is sweltering by the time she gets back, though the sun has set. She strips down to a tank top before she gets into bed, and pulls up one of Bellamy’s very first publications when he first became a professor.

 

The title blinks at her from the screen where her mouse is held over, the letters black and bold. _The Renaissance Texts_ , it reads. _Greco-Roman Literature and its Influence_.

 

She remembers the vast amount of research he did for it -- he spent weeks checking books out from the library, and sitting in the kitchen they shared. She remembers how nervous he was before submitting it for publishing, and the sheer delight on his face when a journal featured it on their bulletin. 

 

She tries to superimpose the image she has of Bellamy now with the one she has in her mind, and struggles to find the similarities. He’s cold with her, and distant, and it’s _unfamiliar_ to her -- maybe he’s changed, and this is how he always is, now, but she can’t believe the Bellamy she knew has disappeared completely.

 

She _misses_ him.

 

It makes her want to cry, suddenly, and she closes the tab without opening the article, and rolls over, turning out the light.

 

\--

 

Bellamy found her at the bar, after he had gotten a call from the bartender and broken several traffic laws trying to get there as fast as he could.

 

His heart broke, a little, when he saw her.

 

She was slumped on her elbows, her hair tied back in what could barely be considered a ponytail. There were several empty glasses in front of her, and she was playing with the straw of the drink in front of her.

 

“Hey, princess.” He ran a hand along her shoulder, brushing back a few strands of hair. “It’s getting a bit late, don’t you think?”

 

When she turned to look at him, the breath caught in his throat. There were black streaks running down her cheeks, making the blue in her eyes starkly brilliant. Her lips were parted slightly, and pink, and one of the strawberry-shaped earrings in her left ear was crooked.

 

Clarke lurched forward, suddenly, landing heavily into his embrace. She gripped onto his jacket, and let out a soft sob into his shoulder. Bellamy was vaguely aware that the white button-down he was wearing would be smeared with makeup by the time he got home, but all he could manage to do was wrap an arm around her shoulder.

 

“Let’s go,” he said softly. He waved at the bartender and settled her tab, and led her outside.

 

Before they could get to his car, she pushed back and stood to face him, wiping at her cheeks. She hiccupped.

 

“Clarke, it’s okay -- you don’t need to --”

 

“Lexa’s not moving to Italy,” she stated, flat. “She broke up with me.”

 

He blinked, and his fist twitched slightly.

 

“She --” Clarke laughed, bitterly. “She got another job offer, at _Harvard_. I mean, how could you say no to Harvard? Right?”

 

“Hey --”

 

“Apparently Italy was pointless when she could get a higher paying job right here, in the States. By the time she stopped working long enough to actually _tell me_ that things had changed, that we weren’t going _together_ , she had already booked her flight.” Her voice broke, and she bit her lip, swiping at her face again. She looked up at Bellamy, tears welling in her eyes. “Figures, right? The _minute_ everything seems to be going right, it all explodes into a giant disaster.”

 

Bellamy’s heart was beating loudly, in his ears, pounding relentlessly. He could feel this anger towards a person he didn’t know very well -- didn’t know at all, really -- crawling under his skin.

 

“I thought she -- loved me, I guess.” Her face crumpled. “Does she not love me anymore, Bell?”

 

He paused before answering, holding his breath for a long, slow, count of three. “I -- can’t answer that, for you.” He wasn’t sure how his voice managed to stay so steady. “I don’t know. Sometimes people do things and we can’t explain why -- people change, and. It sucks, Clarke. I’m sorry.”

 

She shrugged, folding into herself. He enveloped her into a hug, pressing his cheek into her hair. She was shaking, crying quietly. Something wet brushed his forehead; he looked up, and saw that it was starting to snow.

 

“Hey, let’s go home.” He tugged her back to his car, and buckled her into the passenger seat, draping his coat across her shoulders.

 

The whole ride home, Bellamy kept his hand on the clutch, but close enough to her thigh that he could feel the warmth radiating off it.

 

Clarke got out of the car well enough once they reached his apartment, but leaned steadily into his side as they climbed the stairs. She was silent as he unlocked the door, and as he led her to the bathroom, and guided her to the toilet seat.

 

He kneeled in front of her. “I’m going to grab you some clothes, and a glass of water, okay? Are you okay here?”

 

She nodded. As he stood up, she grasped at his shirt hem. “Thank you, Bellamy.”

 

He smiled softly at her, and wiped his thumb across her cheek, rubbing at the mascara streaks.

 

When he let her into his bedroom, after she’d struggled for several minutes with getting one of his shirts completely on, she flopped onto the side he normally slept on ungracefully. He sat next to her, watched as she tucked a hand under her cheek and gazed at him. For a long moment, it was quiet, his eyes moving over the spread of hair around her head, messy and matted, and the slope of her nose, and the small mole she had right above her upper lip.

 

Clarke reached and took hold of his hand, running her fingers along the creases in his palm, his knuckles. He saw the bracelet he had gotten for her twenty-first birthday dangling on her wrist, the charms glinting from the lamp on the nightstand next to her bed. She had broken it a year after he had given it to her, so for her twenty-second birthday, he had given her the fixed bracelet, with an extra charm on it. Every birthday, after than, whether or not he got her something else, a new charm always made its way onto the strand of silver.

 

“I don’t think I’m as mad about the whole thing as I am, just, _sad_ , that it didn’t work. I think I knew we weren’t the same as when we first started dating, and after that whole fiasco with the article --” She bit her lip. “I don’t know.”

 

“You don’t have to know how you feel. You can just be angry, or sad. That’s okay,” he said.

 

She smiled at him, slow. She sat up, a bit, adjusting herself so they were eye-level.

 

“It should have been easier than this,” she whispered. “It should have been you, instead of Lexa. You could move with me, and we’d drink wine and laugh and spend days looking at old art, and I’d get impatient with you when you’d drag me to some boring ruins, and I’d zone out when you tried to explain the historical significance of it, and we’d take cheesy selfies in front of ancient fountains.”

 

He grinned, and rubbed his thumb against her hand.

 

“I’m serious, Bellamy.” Her expression was intense, sharp in the way that only Clarke could be. “I wanted it to be you.”

 

He ducked his head, and sighed. “You’re drunk, Clarke. Go to sleep,” he whispered back. But when he looked up, her face was close, inches away.

 

“Clarke,” he said.

 

He knew this feeling -- this sense of static in the air, a dry and tense moment where all the air was sucked out of the room, where any sudden movement could rip it into pieces.

 

He couldn’t bring himself to look away from the blue in her eyes.

 

She licked her lips, and moved closer, so he could feel her hot breath on his lips. His heart was pounding, loud and fast, and his hand was shaky as he moved it up to graze along her neck, up, up, towards her jaw.

 

Clarke moved impossibly closer, and it felt like he was drowning, suffocating in the weight of what occupied the space between them. Her upper lip brushed against his, and he huffed, slightly; she wobbled as she leaned on her elbow, and tilted into him.

 

Bellamy clenched his jaw, and pulled away.

 

“Bellamy --” Her voice was off-kilter, shattering the tension in the room.

 

“You’re drunk, Clarke,” he repeated. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. “Go to sleep.”

 

She stared at him for a moment, pressing her lips together. His heart sank as tears began to well up in her eyes again.

 

“Hey, it’s okay.” He guided her down to the pillow, and wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. “Just try to sleep.”

 

“I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” she hiccupped. “I’m -- sorry.”

 

He gathered her hair behind her shoulder, and opened his mouth to say something, _anything_. But his voice caught in his throat, and he was left empty-handed, sitting by her side like that.

 

She closed her eyes, and he took that as his cue to leave.

 

“I’m sorry too,” he murmured, at the door.

 

He shut it behind him before he could hear any response.

 

\--

 

Bellamy’s at the cafe again before Clarke, and when she sees him in the same place as last night, sits at a different table for her breakfast. She has something that looks like a sketchbook in one hand, and her hair is tied up, leaving the back of her neck exposed.

 

He sits with his espresso until she’s finished her food, waiting for her. When her plate is cleared away and she’s thrown a ten on the table, he shoves his wallet in his jean pocket and makes his way over to her.

 

“Morning,” she says, her voice raspy. “I got a call from Dante this morning -- he’ll meet us at the Oratory at nine.”

 

“Listen, Clarke, I think we should --”

 

“It’s fine, Bellamy,” she interrupts him. “I was stupid for thinking this would be a walk in the park, and now that we both know that, we can move on a do what we came here for, and then go our separate ways in three weeks. Let’s just try make this --” she takes a deep breath -- “as painless as possible.”

 

He bites his words back, and nods sharply. “Fine with me.”

 

She stands, and leads him to the corner of the avenue, where she hails a cab and slides in, making space for him beside her.

 

There’s a strand of hair falling out of her updo, tickling the base of her neck.

 

The driver turns up the radio to a loud, crackly talk show. Bellamy turns and looks out the window.

 

\--

 

The oratory is beautiful, like most architecture in Italy -- all white Baroque, stone curves and statues and frescoes. It’s jarring, really, to be standing in a place that has so much history attached to it -- history he _studied_ , for _years_ \-- it makes him feel small, insignificant.

 

He looks at Clarke, and she’s already studying him, wearing an expression he doesn’t recognize. Her lips twitch, and she looks up.

 

“I know the feeling,” she says. “I spent my entire first year in Italy with my eyes turned upwards.”

 

He’s about to reply, but the door opens and footsteps echo in the quiet space, disruptive.

 

“Hello, Clarke.” Dante Wallace is an old, thin man, wearing a white billowy shirt with a large collar and a pair of khakis. A middle-aged woman follows him, who Bellamy assumes must be Diyoza.

 

“It’s nice to see you, Dante,” she smiles.

 

He walks over to her, clasping one hand in between his own. “We’ve missed you, dear. It’s lonely in Naples without our resident artist.”

 

“Oh, there are plenty other artists to keep you occupied, I’m sure. Paintings are always good company,” she grins.

 

Dante looks over at Bellamy. “And this is your esteemed partner, I presume?”

 

“Yes -- this is Bellamy Blake, a --” she stumbles, pauses for a second -- “colleague. We used to work together when I was still at Arkadia University.”

 

“Pleasure,” Dante smiles. His teeth are blindingly white, like they’ve been bleached. He turns to the woman beside him. “And this is Charmaine Diyoza, head of the Italian police in Sicily. She’s here to help us in finding Ms. Meri and our own precious work of art, il _Natività con San Francesco e San Lorenzo_.” He blows a kiss to the altar, where the replica of the original piece hangs.

 

“Yes, well, we’re doing what we can,” says Diyoza. “It’s been tricky -- Luna Meri is a very careful worker. It’s been almost impossible to keep track of her since she resurfaced.”

 

“Have you gotten anything about what her plans are, or -- why are you so sure it’s this piece she’s going after?” Clarke asks.

 

“She’s been targeting pieces in the Sicilian area,” Diyoza answers. “A few artifacts from various churches, one from a small museum. And people she’s been connected with in the past have a history of being prosecuted for the possession of this piece at one point in time, before their subsequent arrests. It’s pretty high profile, but Luna’s been known to go after larger items. She was part of a plan to go after several Italian works a few years ago, but when the plot dissolved, she fled and we haven’t had anything to go on, until now.”

 

“And Ms. Diyoza will try her very best to find this piece, I’m sure,” Dante proclaims, wrapping an arm around her, not noticing the exasperation in her expression. “Now! Your job, my two aficionados, will be helping Charmaine with the search.”

 

“We need experts who know the painting in detail,” Diyoza explains. “How to handle it, what we can do to ensure its value if and when we locate it, the likes. For the most part, you won’t be involved in the actual search for the piece, but will still be available if we need a consultant on scene, or in the office.”

 

“I can guarantee Ms. Griffin and Mr. Blake are the two most equipped to provide you with the highest quality of work,” Dante says firmly. “I have immense faith in both of them.” He claps a hand to Bellamy’s shoulder, and smiles again.

 

“I’m afraid I need to get back to work, but I’ll see the two of you soon,” Diyoza smiles, thin-lipped, and leaves the oratory.

 

“I guess that’s my cue as well,” Dante sighs. “Enjoy the rest of your day -- see the sights! Explore the beautiful Palermo! I’ll contact Clarke if anything comes up.”

 

“Bye, Dante,” Clarke waves, and immediately slumps her shoulders as soon as he’s out of sight. “God, I get that he’s my boss but --”

 

“I’m pretty sure he’s, like, a robot or something,” says Bellamy. “I’ve never seen that much energy from a guy who looks the same age as Christopher Plummer.”

 

A smile flashes across Clarke’s face, and she takes a step back, moving away from him slightly. He hadn’t noticed that they had gotten so close. “Well, I think I’m going to go back to the hotel and sleep some more,” she says, awkwardly. “Jet lag’s a bitch.”

 

“I’ll see you later, then,” he replies, and watches as she walks out of the chapel, onto the busy street.

 

\--

 

He finds another cafe, not too far from the oratory, and sits down with his book. He supposes this is what the next three weeks are going to look like -- either him or Clarke ticking one another off, getting into a dumb argument, and ending up on opposite sides of the city, only spending time together when they’re actually working.

 

It isn’t what he wants, really.

 

What he wants is to follow her back to the hotel, and apologize, and say that he knows he’s an idiot, but he _misses_ her, and wants to go back to the way things were, and to not be angry at her anymore, and. What he _wants_ is to tell her how much he felt for her then, and how much he feels for her now, and that he could never really be _angry_ with her -- that he’s really only angry with himself -- that he _loves_ her, because of course he does.

 

But Bellamy knows better, and knows that wanting something never works out very often.

 

So he sits, with his book, and his coffee, and tries not to think about going back to the hotel, where Clarke is, and curling up beside her on her bed.

 

He gets a distraction in the form of a large man, in dark shades, sitting down next to him.

 

He looks up from his book, and stares, not moving.

 

The man orders a cappuccino, and leans back in his chair, observing Bellamy.

 

“Is there something I can help you with?” He asks in English first, and when the man doesn’t respond, says it again in choppy Italian.

 

“You don’t need to worry about a language barrier,” the man says. He has an American accent, and a deep voice. “I’m here for the same reason you are.”

 

“Excuse me?” says Bellamy.

 

“Luna Meri,” says the man. “I’d like to track her down, and I heard that was the reason you hopped across the pond as well.”

 

Bellamy’s slightly incredulous, his book still open in his hand. “I --”

 

“Roan,” says the man, tapping his hand on the table. “Roan Ghiaccio.”

 

“How did you know --”

 

“-- that you’re looking for Luna?” He shrugs. “It’s a small town. I’m a big man.”

 

“Is that how you introduce yourself to everyone?”

 

Roan ignores him. “Look, I don’t need much from you -- I certainly don’t need you telling the Italian police that I’m looking for her too -- I’d like this to stay between us. But Luna has stolen some priceless artifacts that belong to my family, and I’d like them back. I think we could help each other.”

 

“If you think I’m going to give you confidential information from the _police_ \--”

 

“Bellamy, I’ll be honest with you -- if you’re serious about finding this piece, which I’m assuming you are, you’ll need my help. I have access to information the police lacks, and you have contacts with the police that I need. It’s a win-win scenario.”

 

“Not if I’m discovered sharing classified information with a stranger,” Bellamy points out. “I don’t even know you. What if you’re part of the Italian mob?”

 

“You can google me,” he replies. “I have a Wikipedia page. It’s pretty accurate,” he adds. “I’ve put most of the information on it myself.”

 

“Again, do you include that in every introductory conversation you have with a stranger?”

 

“I think it might be in your best interest to consider it.” He pulls a square piece of cardstock out of his breast pocket, and slides it across the table. It’s a slate gray color, and his name is typed in bold, embossed in silvery font, with an address beneath. “Please don’t hesitate, if you change your mind.”

 

And then he’s gone, and Bellamy’s alone with his book again, and a single business card next to his empty espresso cup, and he vaguely begins to wonder what he signed up for, when he agreed to spend three weeks in Italy looking for a famous, long-lost painting.

 

It’s certainly not what he expected.

 

\--

 

Bellamy didn’t hear from Clarke for three days after that night, spending his days up to his shoulders in work, coming up with lesson plans and working on his own research. It didn’t occur to him, really, to check up on her: she’d disappear for days at a time sometimes, busy with her own work, and one of them would eventually call the other to make sure they were still alive.

 

But then a week went by, and he still hadn’t heard from her, or seen her at ArkU, and he started to worry.

 

She wasn’t answering his calls, or his emails, and he drove to her apartment two separate times only to find no one was home.

 

Still, he figured -- it was exam season, and when Clarke gets busy, she drops off the face of the earth, and all he could do was wait until she was ready to take a break.

 

When he woke up one morning, and his alarm was going off, with the words _Clarke’s flight leaves today!!!_ blinking at him from his phone screen, his heart dropped into his stomach. He had completely forgotten about Italy, especially after she had said Lexa wasn’t going -- he had written it off, and forgotten.

 

He leapt out of bed and raced to the airport, executing the shittiest park job in his life and pulling a hoodie over his head before jogging in.

 

By the time he reached her gate, the cool and collected voice over the intercom was announcing that her flight was boarding.

 

He looked around frantically, trying to catch a glimpse of her bright, blonde hair.

 

He found her, in the middle of the line, looking down at her phone, frowning.

 

“Clarke,” he barked, striding over to her.

 

She looked up, confused, but recognition flooded her face when her eyes landed on him.

 

“It’s been a week,” he said once he reached her. “More than that, actually. You haven’t answered my calls, or texts, or. Anything. Why did I have to come to the airport myself, on the _day you’re leaving_ just to see you -- just to say goodbye?”

 

She swallowed visibly, and looked down. “I’m sorry, Bellamy -- I just thought a -- I don’t know. I thought a clean break would be better.”

 

“A clean break? Are you serious? That’s bullshit.”

 

She sighed, glancing towards the gate. The line was moving slowly, inching closer and closer to the front desk. “It’s not really a break, even -- I’ll be back, for research, and visits with the art department, and --”

 

“No, you don’t get to do that,” he said, furious. “That’s not your decision to make. You don’t get to cut me off without any notice. Especially when you’re moving across the country, _especially_ when that person is your --” he paused, swallowed. “Your _best friend_.”

 

“I’m sorry, Bellamy,” she said again. She had reached the front desk, and was handing her passport and boarding pass to the flight attendant. “I’ll see you -- when I see you.”

 

“Clarke,” he said, his voice rising. “If this is about what happened the other night, I’m sorry I left. I should have stayed, or done _something_ , or. I shouldn’t have left you. But you can’t just -- _leave_ like this!”

 

She moved to the side, so other passengers could slip past her onto the plane. He stared at her, unconvinced, searching for something, _anything_ in her eyes. But she had steeled herself, and her expression was neutral, calm.

 

“I’m sorry for how this turned out,” she said, flat, like she was reading a script. “But I have to go, and I think you should too, before you cause a scene.”

 

He was incredulous. He stood there, for a moment, watching her fidget with the handle on her carry-on. There was nothing familiar about this version of Clarke standing in front of him, distant and unrelenting.

 

“What’s _wrong_ , Clarke?” He asked, softly. “Did I -- was it something I did?”

 

That got her to look up at him, sadness overtaking her features. “Bell, I --”

 

The intercom cut her off, blaring through the speaker system, reminding passengers that _this was the last call for flight 228 to Naples_.

 

“I’m sorry,” she said, one last time. “I have to go.”

 

She lifted up onto her toes, and pressed a kiss to his cheek, resting a hand on his shoulder. She waited two, three beats, and then let go, swiping at her nose. And then she turned and strode down the jet bridge, not looking behind her, leaving Bellamy standing in the airport, alone, the left side of his face burning.

 

In one hand, he clutched her bracelet.

**Author's Note:**

> chapter two is partially written, and should be up soon! in the meantime, kudos and comments are incredibly appreciated.


End file.
